


wax and wane

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Series: highs and lows [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: When he’d met him, he’d seen a prissy, well-fed and well-dressed city boy, of high birth even though he makes no claim to it. But Jaskier is cold iron under everything. Calluses on his fingers from the lute, on his feet from walking forward and forward and forward. He is slender and a little fragile but not soft. There is always a wall behind those bright blue eyes. Geralt wonders, idly, what his story is, but he will never ask because it’s not his place.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: highs and lows [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623901
Comments: 30
Kudos: 882
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	wax and wane

It’s strange to see Jaskier stripped of his defenses, Geralt realizes. 

Even sleeping, the bard curls up tight. His face is always a little guarded, no matter how guileless he might look. There’s a sort of tension that’s never gone from his shoulders. 

Geralt has seen it before, of course. It’s the indicator of a life spent on edge, and he carries the same wariness. But it’s strange to see on Jaskier, who pretends very well at being open and carefree. 

It’s a long time before he notices. He’s not in the habit of studying the behaviors of humans, and Jaskier projects a front that’s sweet and loud and irritating, but underneath it all is something locked tight. He can talk for hours and not say a thing. Geralt wonders if he does it on purpose- if he notices his own shoulders hunching in just slightly when someone raises their voice, if he sees that he eats like someone about to have his food taken from under his nose. 

When he’d met him, he’d seen a prissy, well-fed and well-dressed city boy, of high birth even though he makes no claim to it. But Jaskier is cold iron under everything. Calluses on his fingers from the lute, on his feet from walking forward and forward and forward. He is slender and a little fragile but not soft. There is always a wall behind those bright blue eyes. Geralt wonders, idly, what his story is, but he will never ask because it’s not his place. 

He is not in the habit of studying the behaviors of humans, but Jaskier is not most humans. He is interesting, if only through proximity. He keeps this in the back of his mind, a mild curiosity that will not bring fruition. 

Here is Jaskier: he complains at little scrapes, minor injuries, but when he is truly hurt he keeps his mouth shut tight as though saying it out loud will drive Geralt off. He preens, constantly, brushing over his hair and the silk of his doublet, bathes as often as he can, eats quickly and almost savagely. He takes many lovers, women and men, and often returns from the latter with bruises on his wrists. He dabbles almond oil on his wrists and sometimes, like he can’t help it, takes things. Little things that are lying around, like coins or bread in a window. Sometimes Geralt points it out, sometimes he doesn’t, but Jaskier always tucks it away carefully, jerkily, like someone will steal it back. 

He has nightmares, but not loud ones. He just goes very still, and Geralt can smell the sourness of his terror rolling slowly across their little camp or in the enclosed space of their room. He flinches, sometimes, when people move too close or too fast. Little things that paint a picture, even though he keeps it very secret. 

-

It is strange to see Jaskier stripped of his defenses, Geralt realizes. 

The bard is… something. Cursed, maybe, but most likely drugged. He is sitting with his back up against a wall, open terror in his face, muscles wound so tight they look like they might snap. His eyes are focused on the empty air over Geralt’s shoulder. He keeps whispering, quiet and frightened: “please don’t”. 

“There’s nothing there,” Geralt murmurs, the same calm tone as when he soothes Roach. He reaches out a hand and Jaskier flinches from it. He is so pale he looks bloodless, drained, dark bags under his eyes. 

He’d eaten something, Geralt thinks. A hallucinogen slipped into his drink, maybe, or something worse. (He only sometimes remembers how dangerous the world can be for people who don’t know to defend themselves, and Jaskier does know (and he sees that more and more each day) but it can slip past anyway.)

“I don’t know what’s happening,” says Jaskier, tiny voice and wide eyes and something fragile about him. “I don’t understand-” 

“Jaskier,” he tries again, touching at where a hand is clenched tightly on a blanket. Jaskier jerks.

“I’m not- that’s not-,” he tries, half-plaintive. “I don’t want- Geralt, please, I-” His head lolls back against the wall, the pale column of his throat almost glowing against the dimly lit room. “I really, really don’t feel well, Father, please don’t make me go-” 

Those blue eyes start to glaze with tears. Geralt’s heart clenches, unexpectedly. “Jaskier, hush. It’s just me. Can you sit up?” 

“I can’t,” Jaskier moans- the smell of his fear is choking, thick as fog in the room. He brings a hand up, smoothes away the hair sticking to that sweaty brow. “Geralt, what are you _doing_ here, you’re not supposed to… my father will see you.” 

He doesn’t know what to do, really. Sick humans are not his forte. Still: “it’s okay,” he soothes. “I’ll be fine. You’re not with your father, you’re in-” 

“Vengerberg,” Jaskier interrupts, nodding slowly. Geralt hesitates, and then shrugs. Why not? That's his home, he remembers from their visit. “It’s hot in here. Why is it hot?” 

He’s not lucid, that’s certain, but he’s making sentences for the first time since Geralt had found him curled in the corner of the tavern. He sits back on his haunches, pulling a little out of Jaskier’s space. “There’s a fire.” 

“Shouldn’t be,” Jaskier says, making a lurching motion like he’s trying to get to his feet. “Shouldn’t- he’ll see it. What are you doing here?”

“You’re sick,” Geralt says, simply. “Who’ll see it?”

Jaskier chews at his lower lip for a long moment- his eyes are still fixed on something behind Geralt, but when he turns to check it’s still an empty room. He still looks unnervingly open, unnervingly young. “You don’t know?” 

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt says patiently. His brows furrow together, shining with sweat. 

“There’s a... man,” he says, haltingly. “He- you won’t let him get me, Geralt?” 

“Of course not,” says Geralt, almost indignant. Jaskier slumps, half falling into the Witcher. 

“Okay,” he breathes out, hot through the worn fabric of his shirt. “Okay. He wants- he scares me, Geralt, he’s always looking.” 

“I won’t let him get you,” he repeats, smoothing a firm hand down Jaskier’s back. The bumps of his spine are too prominent, and he makes a note to get his bard something to eat when he can. 

They sleep like that. 

Well- Jaskier sleeps. Geralt keeps alert, even though he knows that the man (whoever he is) will not come for Jaskier in the night. 

-

In the morning, Jaskier is guarded again. He chatters about nothing until Geralt holds up a hand to stop him. 

“Who were you scared of last night?” 

He thinks for a moment that Jaskier will pretend at ignorance, but those shoulders slump just a little. “Geralt, I was drugged out of my fucking mind, you can’t- I hardly even know what I was saying.” 

“But you were terrified of-” 

“I was not _terrified_ ,” he interrupts, hotly. “It’s just- there was a man, when I was a child. He’d- I lived… outside. The streets there are not- so you had to keep watch, and there was a man, and he just-” 

Geralt begins to get a picture. He hesitates, then lays a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “People can be cruel,” he says, quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier laughs, small and a little bitter. “Don’t be. I’m fine. It was a long time ago.” 

Twelve years ago Geralt had been doing exactly what he’s doing now. Traveling the continent, fighting monsters. Humans pack so much into such short lives. 

When he’d met him, he’d seen a prissy, well-fed and well-dressed city boy, of high birth even though he makes no claim to it. But Jaskier is cold iron under everything. It is easy to miss if you don’t look, and lately Geralt has been looking. How many times has this happened without Geralt to watch over him? 

He can’t say this. All he can do is keep a closer eye. 

**Author's Note:**

> just a little character study ficlet from geralts point of view bc i was SUPPOSED to finish chapter 3 of the merlin fic last night but instead drunk me passed out. i still wanted to post smth today so here's this 
> 
> i hope u like it !! if u do pls leave a comment. ily


End file.
